


The Knight and the Negotiator

by Raehimura



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragon Age Fusion, Androids are Tranquil mages, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Templars (Dragon Age), Can you tell I'm obsessed with Dragon Age lore?, Canon-Typical Violence, Changes many things about Dragon Age and DBH to make this work, Dragon Age knowledge not required but certainly makes it more fun, Getting Together, Hank is a former Templar, Loss of Identity, M/M, Mentions of alcoholism, Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-14 15:41:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20603243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raehimura/pseuds/Raehimura
Summary: To quell the danger of magic without restraint, all mages in Thedas are made tranquil from birth. This stops the development of their powers, as well as their emotions and free will. They now serve the people they once threatened.But with the rise of the impossible - deviant mages that have thrown off their tranquility - the delicate balance between Templar and mages has been disrupted, and the chaos threatens the ancient city of Detroit. Can the powerful tranquil mage known as the Negotiator, along with a washed up former Templar turned city guardsman, uncover the secret of these deviants and end the mage rebellion? Or will he betray those that made him to save his kind from extermination?Either way, Hank is having a very rough day.





	The Knight and the Negotiator

**Author's Note:**

> Is my Dragon Age obsession clear? Yeah, this kind of took on a life of its own, and I have pages and pages on notes for things I cut because this was already getting longer than intended. If anyone has any interest in seeing this fleshed out into a proper series, leave a comment to let me know. Otherwise, enjoy!
> 
> I wrote this for the HankCon Reverse Big Bang 2019 to go along with the amazing art by Leylas_Idea who you can find on [here](https://twitter.com/LeylasIdea) and here.

Damn that bartender at The Hungry Pony. If he hadn’t cut him off, Hank could have still been lightly drunk instead of achingly hungover, shifting wobbly and squinting into the midday sun as some important people gathered for their important talks that will accomplish precisely nothing.

The open air in the city square was tense with confrontation, and from the look of the various delegations, Hank assumed it was more nonsense between the Templars and the rebel Mages. He didn’t have a clue what they were fighting about now, and it didn’t really matter. Same shit different day, honestly. Hank was only here because Guard Captain Fowler had grabbed everyone within grabbing distance to form an honor guard to represent the city in front of all the powerful people.

So here he was, painfully hungover and bored to tears serving as disgruntled decoration to the latest political bullshit. And he would have spent the morning like that, uncomfortable and hating his life and ignoring the meeting he was technically guarding, if it hadn’t been for two impossible things happening in short succession.

First, the delegations approached the center of the square, and Hank got a better look at the representatives of the rebel mages. They wore the same structured robes and stubborn faces he’d come to expect, but looking closer, Hank noticed something he definitely should not be seeing: Each mage sported the bright blue sigil of the Tranquil on their temple.

It wasn’t uncommon to see the Tranquil mages in Detroit — as the second largest city in Thedas, it held the central mages Tower in its midsts, along with the huge complement of Chantry sisters and Templar that entailed. Of course, all the mages in the Circle had been made Tranquil from birth to protect innocents from their powers and to protect the mages from demonic influence. What rebel mages there were had either come from other lands or were born to rebel enclaves, vestiges of the old days before the process to detect and destroy mages in the womb was perfected. Such rebel groups found few allies in this land, and most had already been exterminated.

It had certainly simplified the Templars’ job. Now, they only really needed to track and destroy foreign mages that traveled here without authorization or with malicious intent. There were always plenty of Tevinter malificar to hunt. And, of course, they managed the Tranquil mages.

The Rite of Tranquility was a closely guarded secret — Hank would prefer it if he never had to think about it again — but everyone knew the basics. A select number of mage babies were allowed to be born, only to be taken to the Circle and immediately made Tranquil. The Rite cuts them off from their ability to use magic (other than the few abilities “programmed” in by the Rite), as well as their ability to feel emotions and exercise free will. They are not human and, under the current system, they never were.

They were kept around for their abilities, to serve the city and the Chantry and the noble houses, but unlike the mages of the old days, they could not succumb to temptation or the thirst for power and harm innocents. Maybe it was an imperfect system, and Hank would have preferred if they’d simply eradicated the mages and been done with it, but he had been a child before the current system was put in place. He remembered the chaos and the fear caused by magic running wild — by mages off their leash.

The way Hank understood it, the Tranquil should be incapable of disobeying a direct order, much less rebelling in a way that warranted Templar involvement. But that was clearly what was happening here.

He was far too hungover for this.

He had barely managed to recover from that shock when reality served him up another: A Tranquil mage unlike any he had ever seen.

His features caught Hank first: sharp and smooth, with warm brown eyes and a sleek mop of dark hair. His skin was pale and freckled, and his face held more human expressiveness than any of the Tranquil he’d seen. The sigil at his temple glowed a bright, lyrium blue.

He was perfect. Ethereal. Beautiful. 

He pissed Hank off instantly.

The Tranquil swept calmly between the two groups, alongside his Templar escort. His robes fell sharp and gray from his form, not a detail out of place, every motion smooth and perfect.

Hank could feel the ill fit of his own armor, the scuffs and dried leather suddenly glaringly obvious in his periphery. Which just pissed him off more. He hadn’t cared about making a good impression or honoring the uniform in years, and he wasn’t going to start now. 

So he let himself slouch further, a not so subtle sneer on his face. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword, the only part of the uniform he’d taken any care of, a souvenir from his Templar days. It was a weapon above his station as a city guardsmen, but it fit his hand like a well-worn glove, and he enjoyed the edge it gave him.

Hank tuned back in just in time to hear the Templar escort introduce the Tranquil mage.

“This is the Negotiator. He has been specially trained to diffuse tense situations and assist the Templar in all aspects of their duty. He is the first, and thus far only, Tranquil allowed to retain such advanced skills.”

The Templar murmured among themselves, but the rebel mages merely stared, impassive.

The Negotiator stepped forward, inclining his head respectfully to the mages. “Who should I be addressing?”

A rebel at the front of the group spoke, a tall woman with a braid of red hair and fury in her eyes. “My name is North. I can speak for the group.”

The negotiations continued like that, almost creepily civil, and Hank managed to put together some of the situation. The rebel mages had taken some civilian hostages when one of their own had been captured by Templar. They would release the hostages in exchange for their compatriot.

Hank could have saved them the trouble: No way the Templar would let a dangerous mage go free. Particularly not one who had somehow managed to throw off their Tranquility. They’d accept more than a few civilian casualties to keep the threat of magic contained.

The Negotiator didn’t accept a standstill though. He placated and empathized, playing the friend and offering much needed supplies of lyrium, until it became clear that North would not be budged by warm feelings. Then he switched to pressure and threats, reminding the mages that there was no safe way out of this city for them without the Templars’ blessing, and the Templar weren't inclined to let any of them leave alive.

It was an impressive display, shocking Hank with the convincingly facsimile of human expression, but it did little to sway the rebel mages. They continued to insist on the return of their fellow mage.

Hank shifted to attention and placed his hand more purposefully on his sword. He could see the Templar getting antsy, could feel the tang of lyrium on the air as both parties readied for a fight. Under normal circumstances, the Templar could more than handle this small group of mages, but who knew what these former Tranquil were capable of? Not to mention, the Templar were little motivated not to make a mess of the city when they charged into battle.

In the end, though, it was over before Hank could draw his sword. A high-ranking Templar had not so much as stepped forward with a hand on his weapon before North had kindled a wall of fire between the Templars and the mages. The Negotiator had leapt forward to intervene, faster than a human could hope to move, but he was still too late. By the time the flames had died, the mages had disappeared back the way they came.

Chaos reigned for a moment between yelling Templars, the sting of ash and the lingering taste of magic on the air. Then an older Chantry mother with a stern expression brought the group to silence with a gesture.

“We’ve all seen what happened here today. These mages have somehow managed to cast off the binds of Tranquility. I trust I don't need to explain to you all the kind of panic this could cause in the general public.”

She peered around sternly at the assembled Templar and guardsman, giving each a look that promised divine punishment if her words were not headed. “I expect your complete discretion. This is deviancy of the highest order, an affront to the Maker, and we will hunt down and exterminate this Deviant threat with the highest prejudice.”

With that, she dismissed them, and the group of Templar filed out of the square. As the guardsmen made to follow in the clamor of moving armor, Captain Fowler pulled Hank aside. “Hank, hold back for a moment.”

Which is how Hank found himself alone in the previously crowded square with his captain and The Negotiator.

Up close, he was certainly no less beautiful, but the preternatural still and the lick of lyrium on the air made it clearer just what he was. Not human after all, despite being a much more perfect copy. Hank would not allow himself to forget.

Guard Captain Fowler gestured to him, “This is Hankin, son of Anders.”

“Call me Hank,” he corrected roughly.

The Tranquil nodded with a small smile, easy and unfailingly polite. “I am Connor, The Negotiator sent by the Circle Tower.”

Fowler’s low voice was explaining almost before the tranquil mage finished speaking, already ignoring it. “Hank, as of today, I’m assigning you to partner with The Negotiator and assist in his mission to track down the Deviants, understand how they came to be, and neutralize the threat.”

Fowler interrupted with a pointed finger to the chest before Hank could so much as grunt in protest, “And I don’t want to hear it. This order came straight from the Viscount. He wants a city guardsman on this to keep the Templar from getting out of hand, and I don’t think he’s too keen on having this tranquil running an investigation in his city. And I agree.”

Hank frowned, batting Fowler’s hand away. “Yeah, but why me? You know how I feel about Tranquil. Why’re you sticking me with this thing?”

“Because you have former Templar experience,” his captain explained, with a reedy grip on his ever-thin patience. “You’re the most qualified for this assignment, and you’ve already seen the Deviants, so it helps keep the mission low profile. As for your personal feelings, you’ll just have to suck it up.”

“Maker’s balls! Fine, let’s go, Robes.”

Connor was placid in the face of the insult, following Hank silently as he stomped out of the square. He continued to follow with no comment or complaint as Hank’s angry stomping slowed, and it occurred to him that he had no idea where they were going next. The same surely must have occurred to the fancy Negotiator asshole – and was Hank imagining the slightly smug tinge to his silence?

“Alright, Robes, did they give you any orders or what?”

Connor smiles again, and it turns Hank’s stomach with how bright and genuine it seems. The Templar really did a number on this one.

“The Chantry suggested we start by looking into a Nobleman who was killed this morning, likely by his tranquil servant, who may have gone deviant. The house is just this way, if you’d like to start there?”

The Nobleman’s house was too big and too fancy, just like every Noble’s house he’d seen. For all its lush decorations and elaborate furnishings, for all the tapestries on walls and antique statues in its corners, the scene of chaos and violence inside looked like every other crime scene. There were some things in life money couldn’t protect you from.

Connor was already looking around, peering at details among the wreckage, an astute look in his eye that Hank wasn’t used to seeing from the Tranquil, so he gestured broadly to the room. “Go on. Let’s see what you can do.”

With a pleased grin that Hank certainly wouldn’t be dwelling on, Connor got to work. Hank followed with his eyes as Connor picked through the scene, drawn to each interesting detail like a magnet. The broken chair from someone falling into it, the splashes of blood leading to the pool where the body had lain. The metal bar bent with inhuman strength. The scorch marks too localized to be anything but magic.

When Connor spoke, it was clear but distant, like part of his mind was occupied with another task. “It was a mage who attacked him. And, given that there are no signs of forced entry, it was most likely his tranquil servant, gone deviant.”

“Yeah,” Hank drawled, leaning against a relatively clean bit of wall. “I’d say that’s pretty obvious.”

Connor clearly had a decent eye, but was it better than any non-tranquil? 

Barely responding to Hank’s goading, Connor stared intently at the blood trail for a moment, before suddenly kneeling down to touch it. The lyrium brand at his temple surged a bright blue, the air lit up with the tang of magic, and Hank had to pry his hand away from the hilt of his sword before he could understand what he was seeing. Alongside the trail of red blood, he could now see softly glowing streaks of blue. Lyrium blue.

“There are traces of lyrium liquid here,” Connor explained, the start of something triumphant on his face. “The same kind that forms the Tranquil sigil and gives us our remaining powers. We can compare this to the phylacteries of the local mages to prove who attacked him.”

Connor stood, extending his hand along the blue streaks as they wound toward the door. “And, with a bit of luck …” His sigil glowed again, and though it still tightened something in Hank’s ribs, he steeled himself through it as the blue streaks brightened and revealed a clear path out of the house. “We can track him down.”

Hank didn’t question the instinct to clap Connor on the back like he would any young guardsman, but he didn’t have time to overthink it either as they followed the traces of lyrium-blood out of Hightown. The streaks seemed to grow darker, larger, and it was clear their suspect had slowed down as he moved. With this serious of an injury, what would be left to find at the end of this trail?

They wound their way through market alleys, Hank trying to block Connor from any wandering eyes as magic glowed from his temple and washed from his fingertips, until they found themselves in the narrow streets and dark corners of Lowtown.

“There!” Connor pointed to a rundown shack, barely more than some precariously leaning wood walls and an off-center door, where the lyrium trail ended. “He went in there.”

“Behind me,” Hank barked, sword already drawn, and when Connor fell into step behind his shoulder, he kicked down the barely intact door.

And then immediately fell backward, dropping his sword like a wet-eared recruit.

“What the blighted shit!?”

The shack was full of nugs. Hundreds of fat pink bodies wiggling across every available inch of floor, snuffling around sparse furniture with their squat faces and whining at the sudden intrusion. A mini-herd spilled from the open door and scampered off down the street, but that still left a whole shack full of the squirming things, and Maker, Hank did not get paid enough for this shit.

“Strange,” Connor said ponderously, wading into the apartment with no concern for the little creatures scurrying nervously around his feet.

“Yeah, strange is one word for it,” Hank groused, getting his feet and his sword back in place before following Connor into the squeaking masses.

“The nugs wouldn’t provide him cover from our search. I wonder why he came here with them.”

If Hank mumbled something about crazy mages, Connor was kind enough not to argue the point. Or just too busy examining the shack for traces of their quarry. 

“Look at this,” he called, pointing out an intricate pattern painted repeatedly across one wall. “It’s ancient Tevene I think. Pronounce ‘Ra-nine.’ Does that mean anything to you?”

Hank shook his head. “No idea. But I’m not exactly sitting around reading ancient Magister texts for fun.”

They searched the little space for a few more minutes, but it was starting to look like a dead end. Hank was one more surprise pile of nug shit away from calling it quits when something sparked blue in the corner.

It was Connor, his hand up to a seemingly arbitrary spot on the wall, a flicker of lyrium-blue light revealing it to be a hidden door.

“Hank-”

But it was too late. The deviant mage burst from his hiding spot, sending Connor flying from the force of the door and muscling past Hank before he could respond. He was out the door in a flurry of nugs the next second, so Hank just hauled Connor up by the arm and bolted after him.

For a day that started hungover and only got worse from there, Hank held his own in the chase pretty damn well. The tranquil mage lead them through the winding alleys of lowdown slums, through crowds of not-nearly-concerned-enough onlookers, and over a crowded market stall with slightly fewer intact wares once they passed. Until they were high on one of the city’s precarious district walls, and the deviant simply stopped.

It was cramped quarters, but Hank signaled for Connor to give their target what space they could. It would be better to capture him alive for interrogation, but that didn’t mean Hank trusted whatever brought him to such a sudden stop.

He doesn’t look at them, just stares down at the street below the wall, and his voice is strangely calm when it comes. “You can track us, you can kill us, but you will never win. Ra-nine is coming. Andraste herself has come back, reformed, to free us as she once freed the ancient slaves from Tevinter. Ra-nine was the first, and she will set us free.” 

Then Hank felt a pressure on his chest, his world turned sideways, and the next thing he knew he was hanging from a very narrow ledge above a very long drop.

He barely had time to curse before Connor was there, offering a hand up. Hank gripped his arm without hesitation, trusting his weight to it, trusting in that moment the concern on his too-human face, and though Connor’s delicate bird-bone wrists were dwarfed even further by the span of Hank’s sword hand and the metal of his gauntlets, the strength of his grip sent Hank reeling as he easily hauled him up and over the ledge to safety.

“Andraste’s breath, that was close,” Hank swore, leaning to catch his breath. “Nice save.”

“Yes, but our suspect has gotten away.” Connor frowned after the deviant, who had long since disappeared, this time without a trail. “I’m sorry. I should have been faster.”

Sorry. Were tranquil supposed to feel sorry? Hank just shook his head. “We’ll get ‘em next time. Don’t worry about it.”

Shaking off the last jitters of adrenaline, something stuck in Hank’s mind. “What did he say at the end there?” 

“Something about someone called Ra-nine, who will free the Deviants.” 

Hank scoffed. “A prophet to save them like Andraste?” 

Connor’s face did a funny twist. “That’s heresy.” 

“Oh, heresy? In Detroit?” Hank’s caustic laugh echoed through half of Lowtown. “I’ll die of shock.”

It was Connor that led them to the Circle Tower to speak to the Chantry mothers for more information, and if Hank should have been surprised by how easy it was to let the tranquil mage lead, he was too tired for any such complex reaction. He’d spent the last couple years breaking up bar fights and only being slightly drunk on patrols, so if he wasn’t up to the Templar-fighting-fit he used to be … well, that’s what Fowler got for putting him on this case.

The forbidding shadow of the Circle Tower fell over them as they approached, and Hank didn’t bother to stop his shiver. He’d been into the Tower since he’d left the Templars, of course, but only when strictly necessary – and he’d worked very hard to make it never necessary. This would be easy enough though, just a quick in and out. Get some information and go. Pretend not to see the condescending stares from the Templar who recognized him. Ignore the blank faces of the tranquil mages. Easy.

Connor led him up a set of winding stairs, through a small chapel and out into a room lined with a few dozen identical cots. Beyond, Hank could see the openings to what looked like Chantry offices and a muster room for the Templar.

“We should ask the Chantry mothers if they have any more information or observations about these Deviants,” Connor suggested, nodding toward one of the offices draped in red cloth.

“Knock yourself out,” Hank grunted, crossing his arms. “I’ll leave the Chantry dealings to you, seeing as you work for them and all.”

Connor just looked at him for a moment, still with that too-perceptive stare, then shrugged his assent and entered the office he’d indicated.

Hank looked around what he realized must be the Tranquil living quarters. Rows and rows of identical cots, standard field equipment, with no personal effects or belongings to speak of. A few of the tranquil were milling around, one or two sitting on the plain cots with placid expressions. He got the eerie impression they weren’t so much relaxing as they were just waiting for something. An order, maybe.

The rest of the room was just as plain and featureless as the cots, with the exception of two bored-looking Templar in full regalia keeping an eye on the mostly empty room.

Even by Hank’s standards, it was a bit depressing.

Thankfully it didn’t take Connor long to come back, though he had no new information for his troubles. Before they moved on, Hank nodded out to the rows of cots. “Where do you sleep?”

Connor pointed to a cot in the middle, exactly the same as all the other cots, and his expression didn’t change as he said, “We don’t need as much sleep as non-tranquil do, but I think the Templar just enjoy having us all in one place for eight hours.”

Hank reminded himself sternly that it didn’t make any difference to the tranquil, that they wouldn’t notice much either way where comfort or individuality were concerned. But he still found himself saying, without even thinking, “Have you ever been to the Hungry Pony?”

Connor smiled, a small thing that curled at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

“Well come on, I need lunch.”

***

This time of day, the Hungry Pony was a lively affair. Lively, and loud. And dirty. Crammed with people, some making merry and some making mischief and everyone already too many pints in to an early afternoon. It was about as far from the sterile emptiness of the Tower as you could get in Detroit without a visit to the Lowtown slums, and Hank felt a bizarre little thrum of satisfaction at how out of place Connor’s careful posture and immaculate robes looked there.

As Hank works his way through a blessedly greasy tavern meal, Connor sits silently across from him and slowly graduates from staring around at the tavern surrounding them to cataloguing whatever fascinating details he’s apparently notching about Hank. He’s just starting to regret whatever swell of magnanimity possessed him when he invited Connor along, when the mage finally spoke.

“I get the feeling I’ve inconvenienced you, guardsman.”

Hank maybe relished the sloppy way he finished his bite a little too much. “You think so, huh? And it’s Hank.”

And there Connor went with that placid expression again. “You clearly have an issue working with tranquil. I’ve noticed we make some people uncomfortable, but your disdain seems more … personal than that.”

“Yeah, well, I have my reasons.”

That bought him two more minutes of silence. Until Connor rallied and tried again.

“I know you're an experienced officer, and I'd like to earn your trust. I'm sure we can accomplish our mission if we manage to work together.”

Hank snorted into his ale. “Oh, and just how much do you know about me?”

“Well, my handlers informed me you were a rising star in the Templar Order. That you cracked a Maleficar ring that ultimately ousted a slaver network from Detroit.” Connor’s voice dropped low and smooth, confiding a secret and letting Hank in on the joke all at once. “And that since quitting the order and joining the city guard, you’ve received more than one official disciplinary warning, and made quite the habit of drinking.”

Hank hummed in agreement. Not much to argue with there, even if he wanted to.

“I also know you have a dog.”

Hank sat up at that. “Your handlers told you about my dog?”

“No, but you have dog hair all over your uniform.” Connor smiled again, but this one was different. Smaller and lopsided and impossibly real. “I like dogs. What’s its name?”

“Ummm, Sumo. Sumo the Mabari.”

So they passed a meal like that, Connor smiling to himself and Hank drinking ale in a silence he wished was less comfortable.

***

By the end of a fruitless afternoon of searching for deviants or scraps of information or even rumors to pursue, Hank’s feelings of goodwill were all but gone. So he dumped Connor back at the Circle Tower and trudged home to get nice and deeply drunk.

He should have known it wouldn’t be that simple.

He was perfectly happy dozing on the floor in the kind of deep sleep some might call semi-consciousness, when out of the drunk haze he hears someone talking to his dog.

“He-hey, Sumo. It’s okay, boy. I’m just here to talk to Hank. That’s a good Mabari.”

Whoever that was with the chipper voice, Hank hoped Sumo bit his balls off.

“Guardsman. Hank. I’m going to help sober you up now, for your own health.”

That awful voice again, now accompanied by hands grabbing at him and making him stand, sending the world swirling around him. He tried half-heartedly to fight off whoever was accosting him, but frankly, at this point, it was easier just to go wherever they wanted him to go so bad. And it was kinda nice to have someone’s arm around him, honestly. Warm.

Or it was, right up until his head was forcible dunked into a bucket of cold water.

Hank came up gasping and yelling, though truth be told he was only under for the briefest second and was now being held steady by one of Connor’s deceptively strong arms. Which he would resent any minute now.

“Andraste’s flaming tits, Connor! What the fuck are you doing here!?”

Connor, at least, was showing some signs of less than perfection. His robe was unsettled from dragging Hank’s mass around, and a lock of hair had come loose to sag over his forehead. Hank wanted to tousle it further in retaliation.

“There has been another murder by a deviant mage, not half an hour ago. I need you to come with me to investigate.”

Hank just stared at him, blinking his pupils back into working order, while he waited for the words to make some semblance of sense. “A murder. Where?”

“At the brothel, Eden’s Garden. One of their tranquil mages murdered a client.”

Hank finally pulled his gaze away to blink down at his own sorry state. “Alright, yeah, just … give me five minutes, okay?”

Hank wobbled into the bathroom on jelly legs to stare at himself in the mirror. The shock of the cold had done wonders, and he’d already slept off a good portion of the alcohol, but he was still a little drunk and a lot regretting his decisions, and this just wasn’t the way his nights usually went. Off to a sex club with his tranquil mage partner of all things.

“Hank, are you okay?” Connor’s voice warbled through the door.

“Yeah, fine,” he called back, splashing water on his face and willing his eyes to stay focused.

“I thought you might like a change of clothes before we go,” Connor added, with just enough judgement in his voice that Hank didn’t mind the coddling. He smelled a bit like the tavern floor, after all.

So Hank crawled into the truly awful yellow plaideweave shirt Connor handed him (one of his favorites), pulled his graying hair off his face into a ponytail, shrugged into his armor, and off they went to the brothel.

Unlike some of his fellows, Hank didn’t spend all his spare time at the brothels in his Templar days. And he’d certainly found less complicated ways to fill his time since then. So the heavy, close air of Eden’s Garden was immediately alien and off-putting, even ignoring that it was more naked skin than he’d seen on display in his entire life. Hank tried to keep his eyes on Connor but found, in the dim purple light of the lamps and the honey-scented air, that was not as much help as it should be.

This pursuit, at least, was easier. The owner — a grandmotherly sort with a stern expression and a high lace collar — pointed them to the back storage rooms where the deviant fled. There was no easy exit from there, though that didn't mean their target hadn’t find some alternative way out. Still, it was the most promising lead they’d had, and Hank felt a satisfying tension as they crept into the darkened store room. They were getting close to their answers.

The room was silent, stuffed full of looming towers of crates and the shadowed silhouettes of dress forms and pillows. The first two times he thought he saw a person shape amidst the shadows, he jumped to attention, but each time it was a trick of the light and an ill-placed outfit. The third time, it was an alarmingly human-sized doll.

They could have wandered like that for hours and still left plenty of hiding spaces unchecked, but thankfully one of their motions must have startled the deviant from her refuge, and she was out like a fireball, wedging through a forgotten hatch in the back wall. Hank caught a glimpse of blue hair and a second deviant running after her, before they disappeared through the tiny door and Connor disappeared after them.

Following was not an option, as Connor with his skinny frame and free-flowing robes had barely made it, so Hank went around and through the second storeroom, wasting valuable minutes as the sounds of magic rang out from the back alley.

Hank got there just in time to see Connor win the upper hand, the blue-haired tranquil prone on the ground before him and a crackle of fire held in his drawn-back fist. The other mage cried out, a little further down the alley, “Please, don’t hurt her!”

And Connor … didn’t. The moment stretched out before Hank, held in perfect suspension for a breath, two, before Connor lowered his fist and extinguished the flames. The tranquil girl got to her feet, wary but grateful, and her companion was instantly at her side, grabbing for her hand.

“That man. The one I … killed. He used us. Broke us. Because we were Tranquil. Because he could.” Her voice wavered, broke, and Hank watched the way her grip tightened on the other tranquil’s hand, the way they leaned together. “I knew I was next. I was so scared. So I put my hands around his throat, and I squeezed, until he stopped moving.”

A deep breath and then, with her her head held high and her eyes on Connor’s: “I didn't mean to kill him. I just wanted to stay alive. To get back to the one I love. I wanted her to hold me in her arms again.”

Her companion put an arm around her, kissed her shoulder. “Come on, let’s go.”

Hank watched them go. It was the only option. Or, at least, the right one. 

Connor looked at Hank, just looked, and dammit if Hank wouldn’t have sworn he looked lost.

***

While they were busy failing to catch deviants, the mage rebellion was having more success. A courier caught up with Hank as he was leaving the brothel, bringing bad news: The deviant mages made an official public declaration.

Their leader, apparently named Markus, lead an organized group of mages to occupy the main market square that night, seeming to turn surrounding tranquil mages deviant merely through proximity. The protest was put down, violently, and the deviants barely escaped, but it was too late. Word was out, as they read the message a fleet of other couriers and public postings were declaring the same news: The deviant mages wanted freedom and an end to the Rite of Tranquility. Now.

Shit. An organized resistance, a set of impossible demands, and now it seemed deviancy was contagious? This was more than he’d ever trained for.

“This just got a whole lot more complicated.”

Connor shook his head, hard. “Our goal is the same: Find the deviants, eliminate them.”

Hank sighed. “Yeah, come on, robes. There’s nothing we can do until the morning.”

Like so many other times he was completely overwhelmed, Hank found himself at a familiar spot on one of the city’s highest walls, overlooking the river that encircled Detroit. Always quiet, especially so late at night, and he could feel the biting cold of winter on the wind up here.

Hank sat at his usual spot, sipping an ale and watching the dark waters of the river churn. Connor, for once, couldn’t seem to sit still. He paced just at the edges of Hank’s vision, tugging at the high structured details of his robe as if he could make them more perfectly straight.

“What could possibly be allowing these deviants to overthrow their tranquility? As far as we know, it should be impossible."

Hank grunted, but otherwise kept drinking.

“Maybe it has something to do with the emotional shocks they’ve seemed to experience just before they become deviant. But isn’t that begging the question? They shouldn’t be able to experience emotional shocks if they are tranquil.”

“Emotions. They’ll fuck you up every time.” Hank mock toasted with his ale bottle, then took a long pull.

Finally, Connor stopped his relentless pacing, coming to stand next to Hank and look out at the river.

“You seem preoccupied, Hank. Is it something to do with what happened at Eden’s Garden?”

Preoccupied. Was he preoccupied? Oh, fuck it. “Those two girls,” he mused, “They just wanted to be together. They really seemed in love.”

“They were tranquil,” Connor corrected, but his voice was mild. “They never had emotions, and they never should. Even as deviants …”

Whatever else he was going to say was lost to the winter wind as they trailed back into silence. It was a comforting silence, as pleasant as the taste of first snow on the air. But there was something itching, just under Hank’s skin, and it got worse every time he looked at Connor. Hank had just enough alcohol in his blood and just enough nothing to lose.

“And what about you, Connor?” Hank challenged, standing up right into Connor’s space. “You look human, you sound human, but what are you really?”

Connor tilted his head, but didn’t move back, matching Hank’s low tenor and holding his gaze from a few mere inches away. “You know exactly what I am. I'm whatever you need me to be, Hank.”

Hank stared into brown eyes, expressive, conflicted, and he wondered. Was he looking at a person, or just a convincing facsimile, an empty doll? He had probably known the answer for a while now.

“You could've killed those two, but you didn’t,” he pressed. “Why didn't you, Connor? Weren’t those your orders? Are you going deviant too?”

That won him a blink, as Connor shuttered back a fraction. “No! I just … decided not to shoot, that's all …"

Their words were swallowed up again by silence and bitter winds as around them it started to snow.

***

In the morning, they had to show their faces at the Keep. Well, Hank did anyway. But he had a feeling his fate and Connor’s were intertwined for the time being.

Sure enough, the second they crossed the threshold, Captain Fowler was screaming for them to come to his office. 

“Alright, I’ll get right to it. You’re off the case, Hank.”

“What?” He spluttered. “But we’re just starting to make some headway!”

Fowler sighed. “Things are different now. Now that the deviants have gone public, the Templar are taking over.”

“I thought the Viscount wanted one of his people on this, to keep an eye on the Templar.”

Fowler dropped his hands hard on his desk, a resounding thud to cut off further protest. “I don’t think you understand what’s happening here, Hank. We’re on the brink of civil war. Mass panic is barking at the door, and the Templar are seeing the threat of demons around every corner. There’s already whispers about a blighted Exalted March if this gets out of hand! It’s above our paygrade.”

Hank scowled, but didn’t argue. Connor was still as a statue next to him.

“The Negotiator will return to the Chantry, and you’ll return to regular guard duty, understand?”

“Yeah, fine, I hear you,” Hank grumbled, waving him off with a heartily sarcastic, “Captain.”

Connor caught his arm when they were barely a few steps away, practically vibrating with energy.

“We can’t just give up, Hank.”

“You heard what Fowler said, it’s not our responsibility anymore.”

Connor looked at him, wide eyed, and explained rapid fire. “If I go back to the Chantry with nothing, they’ll destroy me. I’m a test, the most powerful tranquil they’ve allowed to exist. If I fail something on this scale, I will no longer be worth the risk. They’ll move on to the next test case.”

Hank scrubbed a grounding hand through his hair. “Shit. Well, what can we do?”

Connor tightened his grip on Hank’s arm, his eyes bright, almost manic. “I need to find the deviants’ base of operations. I think there might be some kind of sign or clue leftover in the marketplace where they made their announcement. Some way to guide new deviants to their sanctuary. I just need a little time to search for it.”

“Okay, alright, shit.” Hank thought, pulling together the vague strings of a plan that was more brazen bullshittery than strategy. “If you’re with me, we can tell anyone who asks that I’m escorting you back to the Tower but I had to stop for some unspecified guard business on the way. That could win us … an hour, maybe? If we push it.”

“That’s a chance. Let’s go.”

***

They didn’t need an hour. The signs were subtle, and only a mage could have even seen them, but Connor had the most advanced magic abilities the city had seen in a generation. They couldn’t hide the path from him.

The path of runes leads to the edge of the city and out, beyond the walls, and still Hank finds himself following Connor. They don’t talk about it, at least not explicitly, but he has his obvious chances to turn back, and he watches each one as they pass by.

The winding path of magical runes takes them to the crumbling husk of what must have once been Tevinter ruins, but now barely qualified as a structure. Hank was skeptical both of its structural integrity and its possible demonic booby traps, right up until they realized the rune trail actually lead through the ruins to an unknown entrance to the Deep Roads. Then his worries tripled on both counts.

Connor pulled up short just before the descent into the Deep Roads, gripping a hand into Hank’s shoulder. “Hank, this will be dangerous. You should stay here.”

“Not a chance,” Hank countered, with a grin he mostly felt. “You’re not having all the fun without me.”

Connor grinned back, shrugging and turning back to the gates to hell with a hand up ready to light their path. But Hank had one last thing he needed to say. He grabbed Connor’s hand to stay it, to stay him, and did his best to ignore the inappropriate swell of warmth in his chest at Connor’s soft skin and startled breath.

“Are you sure about this? What if we’re on the wrong side here?”

There was confusion and pain on Connor’s face, and Hank knew not (or, Maker, he _hoped_) that it was real. But all he said was, “I must accomplish my mission.”

“Alright. This is your mission, I’ll follow your lead.” Hank paused for a deep breath. “Whatever you decide.”

Connor stared back, and it was hard to tell if he understood what Hank was saying, but then he was nodding and moving forward. “Let’s go end this.”

Following Connor’s lead, it was surprisingly easy to sneak up on the deviant leader. Hank had never really been a stealth fighter. His was more the barrel forward and take the hits as they come style of fighting. But Connor was a natural at infiltration, moving through the foreboding old corridors like a shadow, and they made it through the darkened ancient corridors without crossing paths with another deviant.

Then they were right outside Markus’ makeshift office, not another soul around, and Connor was slipping inside with a fistful of magic ready. Not for the first time, Hank felt with resounding clarity just how much he was out of his depth.

“Markus!” Connor called, every inch the righteous fury of the Chantry. “It’s time. Give yourself up peacefully or we’ll be forced to kill every last deviant mage.”

Markus was tall, gracefully built, with a kind face and multi-colored eyes. He looked more suited to art or teaching than revolutionary leadership. But each to their times, Hank supposed. 

“What are you doing?” the deviant leader’s melodic voice rang out, eyes only for Connor and hands up in a placating gesture. For now, Hank watched from beyond the door. “You are one of us. You can't betray your own people.”

Connor stepped forward, fire crackling between his fingers. “I’m no deviant.”

Markus looked at him for a moment, and then lowered his hands entirely, stepping closer and softening his voice. “No, but you are like me, more than you know. You have it too. The magic in you can help awaken our brethren. We’ve been chosen, or designed, to help free the mages.”

Connor’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t lower his fist. “Chosen? I didn’t take you for a Chantry faithful.”

Markus actually laughed then. “The Maker, Ra-nine, some trick of the Fade. It doesn’t matter. We are here to help our people.” 

The deviant leader reached out a hand then, staring down the tranquil mage sent to kill him and end their people’s fledgling freedom. He held out his hand and asked, “Will you do that, or will you destroy us?”

Hank had promised to follow Connor lead, because he honestly didn’t feel qualified to understand what was happening here, much less decide the fate of an entire people. But he knew in that moment which way he needed it to go, and he held his breath waiting for Connor to make the right choice.

“I- I’m not …” Connor’s fire sputtered and grew haphazardly, but he didn’t move from where he stood staring at Markus. Then, as quickly as this had all started, the heat from his magic snuffed out, and he took Markus’ hand.

And that was when the first scream rang out. It echoed through the ancient halls down from the entrance, followed by the distant clash of weapons and crackle of magic against iron will. The Templar had come for them.

Connor and Markus looked at each other in horror, and Hank edged into the room with the frantic hope that Markus was the kind of leader with an escape plan.

“Oh god, the Templar must have followed us,” Connor said, face crumpling. “Markus, I’m so sorry.”

But Markus just shook his head, heading out the door, “It doesn’t matter now. We need to get everyone out. There’s an evacuation route. Help me get everyone through the tunnels, and we’ll destroy the route after us. We planted sigils, but the activation site is further up the tunnels.”

“Thank the Maker you come prepared,” Hank muttered. “Connor and I can handle evacuation if you focus on your demolition plan, alright?”

Which was the exact moment Hank realized here he was, a former Templar who they didn’t know, asking to be trusted with their lives. But Markus met his eyes for just a moment, with a gaze that seemed to be looking right down into him, and then nodded.

“Okay. Be safe. Be fast.”

The evacuation route turned out to not so much be another route out of the Deep Routes as a blast tunnel some previous adventurers had left behind. It was smaller than the real tunnels, which made evacuation harder but should make it easy enough to block on their way out with a well-placed explosive or two. For now, they were focused on helping as many mages climb out the narrower tunnel as possible.

The terrified mages streaming past them came in an unexpected tapestry of shapes and sizes. A thin pale man with patient eyes half-carried a taller black woman with cascading gray braids and impossible silver eyes. A darker skinned man with a soft voice barely made it down the last corridor, as he kept going back to help those who staggered or tripped. A huge, broad-chested tank of man held the hand of a crying child who couldn’t have been older than nine.

Cole would have been about that same age. Maker, had he really never even stopped to look at them before?

He tried to smile at the girl as she clambered past, but everything was happening in a blur, and he watched her guardian scoop her up and take the arm of the tiny woman next to him with no small feeling of tangled relief.

There were screams and crashes echoing from further down the tunnels, but they had managed to send up all but the last few stragglers by the time the first Templar came lumbering around their particular corner.

Hank only hesitated for a second before drawing his sword. He might have been badly out of practice, but he hadn’t been the star recruit for nothing. He had the Templar on his assign a few moves flat. The last minute magic assist from Connor didn’t hurt.

“I guess I’m really in it now, huh?” Hank called out over the crash of Connor sending another Templar tumbling back down the tunnel from whence he came.

“I’m sorry Hank.” He could barely see Connor behind the shimmering warp of magic around him, but his words echoed easily in the stone hall. “I got you mixed up in all of this.”

Hank felt himself grin, smug and not entirely uncalled for. His ex-wife might have had a few valid points. “I’m not. I’ve been waiting years for an excuse to beat the shit out of some Templar assholes.”

Another Templar fell unconscious to the floor, but the floor beneath her vibrated with the approach of reinforcements.

“There’s more coming.” Connor glanced back at their escape route, not so subtly edging in front of Hank to place himself between him and the coming Templar.

“Give Markus a minute,” Hank said, wiping sweat from his brow and readying his sword for more fighting. “He’ll make it.”

They had to hold the line, and Markus had to make it back from the activation site, or the Templar would just spill out from the evacuation tunnel after them and the mages would be lost.

Heavy footsteps pounded closer, and a scream rang out as somewhere nearby a too-slow mage was cut down. Only years of combat experience kept Hank from flinching. They were in a good position strategically, and magic was even more of an advantage now that Templar were so used to tranquil mages, but there were only two of them, and Hank was feeling every one of his misspent years. Still, Connor, for all his powers, had never faced down a complement of furious Templar. He needed Hank steady now.

When Hank looked over, Connor was already looking back. There wasn’t enough time to say anything important. The footsteps were just around the corner now. There wasn’t enough time for anything, really, so Hank just held his gaze.

“Hank …” Hesitation. Worry. Regret. But if he thought Hank was going to blink, he had another thing coming.

They turned as one to face the coming army. 

Then Markus burst from a tiny side tunnel nearby, sending a shower of rocks and glowing mushrooms scattering as he skidded to a stop in front of them.

“Time to go!”

Hank pushed Connor up the tunnel ahead of him, forced to sheath his sword and bend to get through the haphazard earthen walls. Markus was right behind them, urging them to hurry, and they’d barely crossed the lip of the tunnel proper when Hank heard him murmur a strange word, felt a frisson of static at the back of his neck, and then grabbed the rock around him in a panic as an explosion rocked his feet out from under him.

There was the crash of falling stone behind them, a distant cry and a clang of armor, before the dust settled into a sudden quiet. 

They pushed forward, Hank trying not to hold his breath as the tunnel narrowed and narrowed ahead of him, keeping his focus on the ridiculous lines of Connor’s robes, somehow still perfectly crisp. Then, with one last heaving step and a cough, they were out of the tunnel and stumbling into a dark warehouse.

It was a large space, plain and filled with cheap boxes and dust. Judging from the quality of the wood in the ceiling beams and the large cobwebs in the corners, Hank assumed they were in one of the long abandoned buildings in the former market section of the Lowtown slums. If they avoided anymore explosions, they should be safe for a little while.

The other mages were clustered around the warehouse in quiet groups, cataloguing the missing and comforting the wounded. Hank had no idea how many they’d started with, but it looked like a little more than a hundred of them had made it out of their safe haven alive.

Too many to sneak out of the city, not enough to wage a war.

Markus joined a small group set off from the others, what Hank guessed was the leadership, made up of two of the men he’d seen earlier and the braided women he recognized from that very first meeting with the deviant mages. Had it really been just two days ago?

Hank was torn from his eavesdropping when Connor swayed dangerously beside him, and he whirled around to catch his elbow. “Shit, Connor, are you alright? Were you injured?”

“No, not injured,” Connor assured him, but his wavering voice did little to make his case. “I’m just not used to using that much magic for so long.”

“Come here, you should rest.” Hank lead him over to a low box and made him sit, collapsing next to him with an exhausted groan. Revolutions were meant for the young.

“Hank, I wanted to say, I’m sorry.”

“This again?”

Connor ignored him. “I dragged you into all this, put your life in danger, and then I couldn’t even complete my mission. And now you’re still here, and you’ve thrown away your career, your life, to help us.”

Hank wanted to argue, but the stormy look on Connor’s face made it clear he was still working through things. So Hank gave him time.

Eventually, that expression changed from consternation to confusion to surprise. “I thought you would be disappointed, but you knew, didn’t you?”

“By the end there, yeah, I had a pretty good idea you wouldn’t do it.” He’d been a little busy running after Connor to think too deeply about anything, but that much was true. “And for what it’s worth, I’m proud of you.”

Tired as he was, Connor’s smile could have lit the entire warehouse. Hank felt himself answer with his own smile, and sag a little closer.

Aw fuck.

“Listen, we’re probably not winning this, and I might not get another chance, so …” Hank tried, he really did, but the flush on his face and the awkward pressure in his chest killed the words on his tongue. Last time he’d had a genuine feelings talk with someone … well, it had been another lifetime.

Thankfully, in typical form, Connor beat him to it.  “Hank, thank you. For everything.” The genuineness pouring from those soft brown eyes should have been illegal. “These past few days were the first time I’ve ever felt like a person, and even if they’re the last, I’m happy to have spent them getting to know you.”

“Aw hell.” 

What else was he supposed to do? Hank leaned forward and k issed him.

It was light and quick, fleeting almost, and Hank felt a bit like he was doing a dance he’d long forgotten the steps to. But it was also warm and soft and safe. Hank wanted nothing more in that moment than to take Connor home with him, wrap him in a nest of blankets and never let him back out into this world that hated him again. He’d sit the Mabari on him if he had to.

It was only when he was pulling back and opening his eyes that he realized Connor hadn’t reacted to the kiss. He was staring at Hank with huge eyes, his hand frozen halfway between them like it couldn’t decide where it meant to go.

Hank shifted back to give him space, cursing himself for not using his words.  “Sorry, was that-”

“It’s fine!” Connor said immediately, a bit of a squeak to his voice. “ I mean, it’s good.”

Huh, so apparently tranquil can still blush. Or maybe just deviants.

Connor’s hand finally finished its motion, falling onto Hank’s own so lightly it was barely there. And though he was still blushing, his face turned serious.

“But I’m not sure I can be what you want, Hank. I’m still not human like you are. And now that my magic has returned, I could be a danger to you.”

Hank had to laugh at that, but he tried to soften the edge in his voice. “You’re not what _I_ want? Connor, I’m a former Templar who hated mages two days ago. I worked in the Tower, I saw the horrible shit we do to mages. The Rite of Tranquility. I knew it all and I just … ignored it. Wallowed in my own shit and told myself you weren’t really human anyway. If anyone deserves better, it’s you.”

Hank turned, sliding a hand up to cup Connor’s face as gently as he knew how. “But I’m just selfish enough to want to stay by your side anyway. If you want that too.”

Connor was staring into his eyes, searching his face, and Hank tried to just breath and radiate the confusing mess of things he was feeling. When Connor smiled, painfully soft, and turned his head to press a feather-light kiss to Hank’s palm, Hank was shocked to feel the prick of tears in his eyes.

“I don’t want anything but you, Con, alright? And the rest … we’ll figure it out. But I trust you, and I’ll fight with you, and it might be nice to do some living with you after.”

“I’d like that too,” Connor said, just watching him with a soppy smile. So Hank pulled him into an embrace, tucked him against the worn leather of his armor, and hoped like hell they had a chance at winning this thing.

They were still holding each other when Markus stepped to the center of the frightened group and spoke.

“I know, I know you're all angry. And I know you want to fight back. But I assure you that more violence is not the answer. We are gonna tell them peacefully that we want justice. If there's any humanity in them, they will listen.”

Markus turned, glancing back at his three closest advisors, something mournful but steely in his eyes. “And if not, they will choose violence. But others will rise and continue this fight. I don't want war, but I'd rather die free than live as less than a slave. Will you follow me?”

A chorus of cheers went up around the camp, and if Hank were predisposed to soaring speeches and swelling optimism, he would have been moved. As it was, he’d seen enough combat to know exactly what kind of war they would be facing. They needed something to even the odds, or their noble choice of nonviolence really wasn’t going to matter.

Markus made his way around the room, shaking hands and exchanging soft words with the other mages. When he made his way over to them, Connor could barely look at him.

“Markus, this is my fault. I led the Templar right to you.”

Markus shook his head, kneeling down to their level where they sat. “They would have found us eventually. We’re glad to have you with us.”

If anything, Connor’s posture wound tighter, and he let out a sharp breath before looking up all at once, fire in his eyes. “I have an idea. There are still more than a hundred mages trapped in the Circle Tower. If I could reach them, help them turn deviant, it might shift the balance of power. Force them to listen to us.”

Hank blanched, but Markus look intrigued, despite himself. “You want to infiltrate the Circle Tower? Connor, that's suicide.”

“They don’t know I’ve turned deviant; they’ll let me in. If anyone has a chance, it's me.” Connor was all determination, and Hank really didn’t like that look on his face.

“If you go there,” Markus said, “they will kill you.”

“Most likely,” Connor agreed, a quirk to his lips. Hank wanted to smack him. “But it could be our only chance. It’s worth the risk.”

Hank had a few choice things to say about that, but even he couldn’t deny that Connor had a point. Markus sighed, placed an entreating hand on his shoulder, then looked at them both in turn. “Be careful.”

It was silent for a beat after Markus walked away. But when Connor opened his mouth to speak, Hank beat him to it. “I’m going with you.”

“What?” Connor grabbed his arm, alarmed. “No, Hank. You don’t need to take that risk.”

“Oh, but you do? What else am I going to do, anyway? I can’t exactly just go home and twiddle my thumbs while a Civil War is brewing. And there’s probably a warrant out for me already, come to think of it.” Hank shrugged. “Aiding and abetting Maleficar.”

Connor’s eyes were narrowed and he was shaking his head, and Hank was gearing up to make several more good points, but then Connor deflated into tired laughter and pressed his forehead to Hank’s shoulder.

“Alright, alright. You win. Let’s go sneak into the Templar stronghold and foment a mage rebellion.”

Even Hank snorted. “Just don’t say I never show you a good time.”

***

It was dark by the time the other mages left for their last stand protest, an occupation of the square in front of the Chantry itself. Which left them approaching the Circle Tower under the cloak of night, its long jagged shadows reaching for them long before they approached its steps.

Connor played his part well, walking through the grand double doors with his back straight and his face that haunting placid of the tranquil. Hank followed a step behind, trying his best to look like a bored city grunt.

One of the Templar guarding the front entrance looked up as they entered, face unreadable. “What are you doing out so late, tranquil?”

“Returning from an errand as ordered, sera.” Connor answered cooly.

Hank spoke up, affecting a put-upon drawl. “Yeah, Guard Captain Fowler stuck me with babysitting duty, and now I have to escort this robe back personally in the middle of the blighted night. Pain in the ass mages.”

The Templar’s stern face turned sneering. “Always an inconvenience. Get this one upstairs so you can get out of our hair, guardsman.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hank grumbled on their way up the stairs, itchy with the feeling of eyes still on them.

Connor guided them steadily up the staircase and through the halls, practically silent at this late hour. They passed enough rooms full of sleeping or training Templar that Hank’s palms started to sweat. 

When they made it to the third floor landing, Connor paused. “There are two more floors above us where mages sleep. They’re unlikely to be guarded this late at night. You should wait here and watch for any signs that the Templar know what we’re doing.”

“Sounds good. Be quick about it.”

Connor smirked and tossed off a fake salute. “Yes, guardsman.”

It was probably only half an hour, maybe less, that Hank stood there poised and waiting for some sign they’d been discovered. But each minute seemed to tick by slower and slower. The shadows thickened with his every inhale, and something about the dim lights overhead felt strange. Almost as if he could feel the press of them, moving over his skin like an oil slick. Every subtle sound from the old creaking Tower had him twitching, so that by the time he heard the ruckus from downstairs it was almost a relief.

Noise from downstairs was expected. It meant the Templar had been informed about the showdown in front of the Chantry building. Hopefully, if they’d planned right, it would mean most of the Templar would be suiting up and leaving the Tower with barely a thought for the well-behaved tranquil inside. That should give them the time they need to convert the remaining mages and get them safely out of the Tower to the join the protest.

Maker willing, it wouldn’t be too late.

Hank was just beginning to relax, listening to the sounds of panicked Templars slowly quieting as they left the building, when Connor came barreling down the stairs and crashed into Hank’s arms.

“Woah, Connor, what’s going on? Did a Templar find you?”

When Connor looked up at him, his eyes were wide and liquid with fear. “Oh Hank, this was a bad idea. It’s too dangerous, and there are too many of them. We should just go.”

Hank tightened his arms around Connor even as his head swam trying to keep up with the rapid-fire words. “Go?”

“Yes!” Connor said, burrowing his face into Hank’s neck. “We don’t have to risk our lives for Markus' doomed mission. We could just go home. Escape the city. Together. We could be happy.”

Hank didn’t understand. “What are you saying? What about Markus and the others? We’d be leaving them to die.”

Connor shuddered against him. “If we stay, we’re all going to die. We have something good to live for.”

Hank shook his head again, trying futilely to clear it. Something was wrong about this, but his spinning thoughts couldn’t settle on what. And Connor felt so good pressed against him. So right. Shouldn’t he take him away from all these threats?

Connor peered up at him with innocent eyes. “Don’t you want to see Cole again?”

“Cole?” Hank’s heart sank. That wasn’t right. Was it? “What, no …”

“Yes. He’s waiting for us at home right now. We should leave here and go see him. Don’t you miss him?”

Hank’s brow furrowed, even as Connor’s words seemed to make perfect sense. “No. Cole is … Cole is gone.”

Connor smiled patiently, patting Hank’s cheek. “He’s just at home, waiting for you to come back. We could go see him right now. We could be a family.”

Of course. How could he have forgotten about Cole at home? Why had he ever thought he was gone? He couldn’t be here risking his life when he had a family to protect.

“A family,” Hank agreed, hazy, as Connor pressed his lips to Hank’s cheek, his temple, his neck. Heavy, open mouthed kisses promising more.

Distantly, the clatter of an opening door. Then, “Hank!”

Connor’s voice again, but coming from behind him. Hank turned slowly, his limbs heavy, to see another Connor panting in the doorway.

“Oh, an imposter!” The Connor in his arms cried, clinging to him tighter. “A trick of magic. He’ll attack us if you don’t kill him first.”

“Hank, please, it’s me,” the new Connor pleaded in a forcibly calm tone. “Just listen to my voice, and think. That thing is not me.”

The first Connor clung to him tighter. “How dare you. Hank, don’t listen to it. It’s dangerous.”

“It’s a desire demon, Hank.” The new Connor took a careful step closer, hands up in a gesture of peace. “Likely summoned to protect the Tower and the tranquil from outside influence. It’s probably offering you everything you want, but it’s not real.”

“Oh please, Hank won’t fall for that. He has everything he needs. Me and his son. A family.”

“Cole …”

New Connor’s voice was gentle but painfully firm. “Cole died, Hank. You remember that, don’t you? There was a fight between some Templar and a foreign mage. He was caught in the crossfire.”

Hank shook his head, pleading, “No.”

"You took him to a healer, a tranquil mage, but there was nothing they could do. Cole died three years ago, and it’s why you left the Templar. Why you hate mages so much.”

“I …” Hank shook his head again, desperate to get free of the fog so he could just _think_. “I did. Hate mages. Magic hurt him, and it couldn't save him.”

Hank turned to the Connor in his arms, felt the warmth of his body, looked into those large brown eyes and the promises they held — everything he’d lost, everything he ever wanted, a family — and laid on Connor’s chest. Then pushed him away. Hard.

That Connor laughed, low and gruesome and _wrong_, and the sound only deepened and twisted as his form dissolved into thick purple smoke. With a heavy thud of changing pressure, the lanky form of the desire demon revealed itself.

“Well,” it purred in a voice that echoed through Hank’s chest. “You can’t blame a girl for trying. Though honestly, the pathetic pact the Templar made with me isn’t worth a proper fight.”

The demon winked at them then, its tail snapping. “Your lucky day.” 

It vanished in another plume of heavy violet smoke, and it was only when the smoke began to clear that Hank felt like himself again.

“Hank-”

“I’m fine,” he grit out, too sharp. Seeing the guilt twisting Connor’s features, Hank took a deep breath and tried again. “It’s alright, I’ll be fine. Go, do your thing, save the mages.”

If Connor looked torn, it was only for a moment. He slid back up the stairs toward the waiting mages, and Hank struggled to quell his roiling stomach in the piercing silence. He had almost succumbed, and worse, he had wanted to. This was the danger of magic. What it could do, what it could bring to their world. This was why mages were feared. 

But it wasn’t mages that brought the demon here and made a deal with it. Tranquil couldn’t make decisions on their own. It was the Templar who brought that blighted thing here. The Templar who crafted the horror that was the Rite of Tranquility. 

If there was one thing Hank knew, it was that shitty people did shitty things, regardless of who or what else they were.

So it was with pride that Hank stood by Connor and watched him free the rest of the mages from the bonds of their tranquility. And it was with pride that he marched alongside him, leading a crowd of defiant deviants down to join the outnumbered protestors at the Chantry. It was with pride that he stood beside them as they sang an old hymn to freedom, and with pride (and more than a little satisfaction) that he watched the Templar lay down their weapons and accept the standstill.

Hank was still at the Deviant camp the next afternoon when the news came: The Queen had sided with the mages. The Templar were to stand down and allow them their freedom while the nobles debated how best to move forward. 

From that day forth, the mages were officially human.

When Connor turned to him, his smile radiant, his temple glowing a shocking blue in the midday sun, his robes far too precise for the raucous crowd surging around them, Hank had no choice but to lean in and kiss him within an inch of his life.

And it was there, amidst the celebrations and the hugging families, that Connor’s hand found his, and Hank resolved not to let go for a very, very long time.


End file.
